


The Price of Freedom

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Captivity, Consent Issues, Dark, M/M, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Tony Stark, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Prison, The Raft Prison (Marvel), Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28819077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: After the events at the bunker, Tony and Steve share a cell in the Raft. There's a price to pay in trying to survive.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 151
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this to archive and get it off my drive. Hugs to my secret beta.

It’s a dreary night at the Raft. The storm is a respite rather than punishment. It quakes and hits the prison walls so much so that it’s white noise.

“Tony,” Steve calls out from across the cell. 

They only have about 3 yards between them. Tony stares at the small window, tracking the minutes until the next lightning. He refuses to look at Steve. He already knows what it will look like: a slight pout, tilted head, furrowed borrows. Concerned eyes that are filled with lies. 

He calls Tony, again and again. In whispers, in hisses. Pleads. Ten lightning strikes pass before Tony can’t take it anymore.

“What the fuck do you want from me? Can you shut up? Don’t you think it’s punishment enough that _I’m here_ , sharing this fucking cell with you?”

“Tony, please,” he hears Steve say. 

A cloud passes, silvery and washed out amidst the black sky. 

Tony closes his eyes and leans against the wall. He had to hand it to the US of fucking A for investing in partnerships with private prisons rather than its education system. The Raft’s bleached clean every evening like clockwork. Maximum security that could be easily rigged if Tony chose to escape. A little part of him can’t help but think that he deserves this—to rot in prison for his crimes and failures. 

When people are no longer convenient, cut them loose.

He didn’t hold the dull machete that cut him. 

Steve did. Fuck it, it’s not a machete, it’s more like a vibranium shield to the chest.

He breathes deeply, letting the storm wash over Steve’s voice. The man who lied to his face and walked into his Tower like they were friends.

Maria Stark’s a nice woman. No one can refute that, not even Howard Stark who used to slap her face so much she stopped putting blush on. It was always a perpetual rosy red. He never _hit her enough_ to hurt, he’d say. 

He loved Maria Stark. 

_Mom._

When he was seven, he climbed on her lap and they stared at each other in her vanity mirror. People said—people like _Steve Rogers—_ said he looked like Howard. But that’s only because they never saw Maria Stark other than as a mirage, a shadow of herself that stood always a foot away from Howard.

Maria had brown eyes, too. Bright and doe-light with a slash of green on the edges. Tony inherited her eyelashes. Long and curly. She was a brunette, originally, but Howard once said she’d look “beautiful and charming” as a blonde. 

“My little golden star,” Howard once said. 

Tony snorts, ignoring Steve’s requests to talk.

He never heard Howard call Maria a golden star, but his mother loved to share that story. Especially after Howard hit or pushed her and Tony had to stare at bruises blooming across her cheeks. 

She wouldn’t ever cry. Tony always wondered why she choked down the sobs and held her face high the next morning. They always slept in the same room, even when Howard would disappear for weeks without a call.

Those were the happy parts of Tony’s childhood, even though his mother always turned to the door, waiting for Howard to return. 

Until now, he couldn't figure out if Maria Stark awaited in hopes or fear. Maybe both. He doesn’t know.

“Fucking stop that shit, Rogers.” Tony doesn’t open his eyes, but his nostrils flare and his face is getting hot. 

Steve’s sending out scents that taste like concern and hurt. Tony has no idea why Steve should be hurt. He wasn’t the one left out in a bunker in Siberia waiting for the wolves to feast on his bloody body.

God, the self-righteousness. 

Tony would roll his eyes but he doesn’t want to risk another headache. His brain already hurts and he can’t think with Steve so close to him. 

Tony shifts, sitting cross legged now. He drops a hand across his face. 

Steve’s not going to hurt him.

If Steve laid a fucking finger on him again, Tony will bite his head off. He’s done being diplomatic—well, if throwing a punch could be counted as civil. 

He breathes in again, letting his mind wander back to his mother and Barnes putting his arms around her neck and choking her until the lights went out. 

Respiratory failure. Her system would try to override it. 

Howard was probably dead as his mom blinked once last time. 

Then, gone.

Goodbye, little golden star who died beside a man who snuffed out her brightness.

He opens his eyes, blinks the wetness away. 

“Tony.” Steve’s voice is a pitch higher and the air smells so much like _him_ —not even worry and anxiety now, but just Steve. “Are you alright?”

“What do you think? I’m stuck with the man who basically killed my mom.”

“—I didn’t—! It wasn’t...it was HYDRA!”

“God, Steve, fucking save it, please.” He holds up a hand, blinks again. Once, twice. There’s a sting in his eyes. 

Maria Collins Carbonell. He wonders how much his mother had to strip away to become a Stark. His grandfather and grandmother used to talk about her with a sneer, “thatCarbonell, woman.” 

Then, in galas, she’d wear the most expensive gown, Howard’s arm around her. “Oh, Maria is so lucky.” 

It was all the same, year after year, party after party, charity event after the other. Men and women would point with quick fingers and sip their wine, and talk about Maria Stark: “Howard’s such a great man. Genius, brilliant, handsome, and he’s rich, too. And he married _her?_ Hmmm, yes, he married her. What a Cinderella story. She was poor, you know? Her father was a train laborer and her mother a seamstress for a factory Downtown. Apparently, it goes that Howard found some men messing with her in a back alley. He saved her! And they fell in love! How beautiful it must be to go from rags to riches. And Howard is just so lovely and great to her.” 

Tony doesn’t really know the story, but in his mind, it’s bleak. Maria fell in love with Howard, married him, and probably never stopped loving him.

His mother speaks highly of his father, never a bad word about him, not to the press, not to her socialite friends, not to Tony. Why do people try to save men who are beyond rehabilitation?

He dropped six tabs of acid when his parents died. Then, he jumped into the mansion’s pool and floated for hours, willing the hurt away. His mind ran at a million miles an hour and LSD exacerbated all the guilt. But when he reached his peak, he dropped underwater and opened his eyes and realized that Maria never spoke up.

His mother never spoke out against him, not even when Howard was beating the shit out of Tony. 

Until now, at this moment, stuck in the Raft with Steve, he can’t figure out whether Maria’s silence had been for her own sake or Tony’s. 

He’s not like Steve and his damn eidetic memory. 

Tony can recall all the moments in which Maria stood silent, a by-stander as Howard put his palms to the back of Tony’s head. His leg. Grabbed the belt and whipped his fingers when he didn’t complete a project on time.

They’re supposed to have solidarity, right? Maria’s face was familiar with the sting of Howard’s palm. Tony was well-acquainted with Howard’s Oxford loafers. 

But she’d comfort Tony, seek him after, run a hand over his head, scent him, cover him in the smell of sadness and apologies. It was enough when he was six, nine, thirteen, seventeen. 

No, it was never enough. 

They should have left. He suggested it once.

“Then, you’ll grow up like me and he’ll hunt us down.” She stared at him, face passive, the words rolling out of her tongue like she’s practiced this a million times.

“So what? We’ll keep running. It doesn’t matter about the money. I’m a fucking genius, I can get a job, I’ll protect you.”

Maria shook her head. “We don’t belong to ourselves, honey. We never will.” 

She kissed his cheek, then retired to their shared bedroom. 

Sometimes he wishes he had the courage to hate her. 

She’s a victim of Howard’s violence, just like him. 

No, fuck that, Tony belongs to Tony Stark, alone. 

One thing Howard did right was give Tony the last name _Stark._ Even as an Omega, he spends his life running with Alphas.

Stark is a carefully crafted person. He’s layered with so many masks, it’s hard to choose what to wear on any given day. 

Iron Man is a global favorite, and he quite liked who he is when he’s in the suit.

Tony Stark as the CEO of SI? Sure, if the world can fatten their pockets with Tony’s tech and name, why not? Let’s have Tony Stark fund the Avengers. They’ll take money from an Omega because when it comes to cash, the world is ready to put their hands together and swallow their tongues. 

Anthony Edward Stark, as a human being with autonomy? Not recommended.

“Tony.”

“Can you stop saying my name? I don’t want to talk to you so just shut up.” He seethes, glaring at Steve now.

“Please.” Steve opens his arms, tries to make himself smaller than he actually is. But no, he’s all Alpha, hunching won’t stop him from smelling like one. 

He smells like freshly cut grass from the Compound. Sweet and sharp, like coming up for air after being inside too long. 

It's all a lie though, Tony knows. 

He's a scientist and the airborne smell of the compounds is basically just grass sending distress signals. The plants release molecules, green leaf volatiles, screaming for help. It’s basically their blood going into a human’s nostril. 

Yeah, that’s what Steve Rogers smells like—as if he needs help, as if he was in distress. The scent of grass is nothing but a lie, a pleasant fragrance hiding bloodshed. 

He ignores Steve, preferring to look at the wall above his head. It’s gray, sleek, almost like Natasha Romanoff’s suit. They don’t have any personal belongings in the cell with them. Across the hall’s lower tier are criminals of the superhero variety, ranging from those detained with metal restraints—made by Tony Stark himself—to those having inhibitors planted into their brains.

The irony is that Tony shouldn’t even be here, locked up. 

Brilliant, strategic-minded Captain America entered The Raft under the impression he could take out the maximum security prison. 

Tony gave him the coordinates and schematics of the facility in a moment of weakness. Nevermind that Steve stood over him in the bunker and bashed his faceplate into concrete.

Don’t blame Tony. 

Steve fills him with irrational thoughts.

He returned from physical therapy and went to Steve’s room. It smelled so much like grass, overwhelmingly so to the point that it pissed Tony off. He threw Steve’s mattress across the room, upended his office table, and took scissors and cut up all of Steve’s clothes. 

Just because he was spiteful—Tony clothed that lying man, signed his checks, gave him a home. Then, Steve had the audacity to come to the workshop with his aw-shucks attitude and ask Tony to join him for a meal. A walk. Company. 

Tony burned all of Steve’s paintings and illustrations right in the middle of the Compound’s fields. 

Tony’s only regret was appreciating the drawings, the strokes on the canvas, the color palette on the painting of the river on the outskirts of the Compound. 

He wished that Steve was safe.

Still does.

Tony breathes through his mouth. He hates the fact that the ventilation is practically non-existent in their glass cell. Steve’s scent penetrates every corner of the room,

He doesn’t know the man who sits across from him. 

Tony feels stupid that he’s even here. It’s his own fault—Ross said, Captain America broke into the Raft. That was the plan. 

But then Captain America got into a fight with Tiger Shark and was bleeding out. 

The Raft needed Iron Man as back up, stat. 

Tony should know better than to overlook Ross’ claims. 

But Steve needed him, and in a moment of unchecked stupidity, Tony got into the suit without double checking the validity of Ross’ claims. 

Tony flew to the Atlantic without question. “Back up, stat,” required a conditioned response. 

No questions, ask later, move, Stark. 

Once Tony landed on the island, he was accosted by some enhanced goons under Ross’ command.

And well, here he is, trapped in a cell with Steve Rogers. 

He’s so damned tired. There’s an insistent pierce on the back of his head, and pain under his left eye. Tony’s chest is still tender from where the shield struck him just five weeks ago. 

The fractures on his ribs have more or less healed, but there’s a constant tremor in his left hand. 

He still can’t sleep. When he closes his eyes, he sees Steve above him, hands in the air with the red, white, and blue shield shining. 

When he doesn’t think of Steve, his mind flashes to the video of his parents’ car crash. 

The car swerved, crashing into a tree, then Howard crawled out of the car and begged for help. Tony's still surprised that Howard thought of Maria. 

Tony's more or less desensitized from the Winter Soldier bashing his father’s face. He has a detached sort of pity towards Howard’s death. 

A little part of Tony thought he deserved it for all the times he pushed his mother into their bedroom and slapped her mouth shut. Then, he recalled the times Howard threw an ashtray at him, ashes scattering acrossing the room. 

Tony made peace with Howard’s death. That’s just part of life. A dull ache for the times Howard was _lucid,_ pleasant, as if he loved his family. 

Tony will never understand his father, but he’ll always recall his mother’s face, bloody, red spilling from the edge of her temples, calling out her husband’s name with a defeated sigh. Barnes wrapping his hand around her throat. 

Her last word was still, “Howard.” 

Tony closes his eyes once again, trying his best to expel Steve’s scent. Tony is filled with grief and rage to the brim, and if he has to sit in this goddamn room with the man who lied to him for years, he’ll lose it.

“Ross!” Tony screams, eyeing the camera on the corner of the room. They look at the guards making their rounds, and bear their teeth at them. “Tell Ross to release me. What the fuck is this? Why am I here? I’m Tony Stark. I designedyour fucking weapons, let me out.” 

The guards examine him with flat eyes and continue marching, back and forth down the circular hall. 

“Tony, please, look at me?” Steve leans forward, all the while holding up his hands in an assuming gesture. “Are you alright? You’re not hurt?” 

Tony pauses. He didn’t know how to answer the question.

Steve’s in the prison get-up, gray long sleeves under a navy blue shirt with matching pants. He’s still wearing his sneakers, the plain black ones Tony gifted him last year. After everything, he had the nerve to wear it. Did he think of Tony everytime he slipped it on? Probably not. He seemed to forget to come clean about Barnes and HYDRA.

The same outfit waited for him at the edge of the bed but he refused to put it on because he’s _not_ a prisoner, he doesn’t belong here. This place was for the enhanced maniacs; the out of control who needed supervision. 

He doesn’t think Ross could shove the ex-Avengers to the Raft. So, no, he wasn’t going to strip out of his leather jacket. His arm and lower back ached with injury from the bunker. 

Ross will have to come in here himself and peel the clothes off Tony’s back.

It’s been 36 hours since he arrived. 

The world is grey, captured by melancholia in their prison cells. The waves outside crash over and over, a brutal force against the Raft’s structure. 

This superhuman life is captured only by degradation and decay. Tony never brought into the glory of superheroes. Peeling off Captain America’s suit reveals his jagged edges. 

The veil drops and once he’s seen the facade — Captain America, no, Steve Rogers is destruction, personified—there’s no turning back.

Tony eyes Steve with simmering rage. “I’m fine, Rogers.” 

He examines the cell, clocks the CCTV monitor tracking their heartbeats and movement. The Raft was upgraded with a bio-energy dampening field, courtesy of Stark Industries scientists. 

His own inventions are what's keeping him imprisoned. Tony wonders if Steve feels the same about the serum—the very creation that makes him superhuman is also his downfall. 

Maybe he'd feel different. 

Who the fuck knew? Tony doesn’t know Steve.

He hasn't stepped outside since being here, locked with Steve, of all people. Tony waves at the camera again with a shitty grin. "Ross! Show your uglyass face or I'll bust out of here.” 

“They’re not coming. I’ve been here a week and I’ve yet to see Ross.” 

Tony rolled his eyes. “Yeah, about that, why the fuck did you think you could take the Raft by yourself?”

“Why’d you help me, then?”

“I didn’t.” Tony bites his lip, annoyed. “Shut up.” 

Steve has been in his vicinity for the last day and a half. Seeing his frowning, disapproving face is miserable. There were times when all he wished— 

No, Tony doesn’t want to think about wishes and desires. 

The entire prison is in administrative segregation for twenty-two hours per day. Inmates are released for a half-hour lunch and dinner with the remaining time used for count and for movement along the halls. Tony skipped yesterday's meals, needing to be alone, even for just a few minutes, without Steve's scent messing with his brain and making him—

He swallows, hard, wishing the guards didn’t strip him of his gear. They wouldn’t let him enter the facility unless Tony surrendered his bracelets and submitted to a humiliating strip search. He doesn’t have FRIDAY to call the armour. Fucking Steve.

He glances at Steve, noting that the bite in his arm is already healed. It’s nothing but a pale crescent moon now. He won’t have scars, not like Tony.

“At least it’s healing.” Tony nods at the bandages on Steve’s forearm. It’s better than asking. He doesn’t want to ask because if he asks if Steve is alright, he might think Tony cares _._

Tony does not give a fuck. He tries not to glance at Steve for more than a beat. Any longer and he’ll unravel with the rage and betrayal he’s struggling to stomp down.

“Yeah.” Steve leans closer. “What about you? You alright?”

“I’m stuck here with you, how the fuck would I be alright?” 

Steve sighs, and his face is long and remorseful. “I’m sorry, Tony. You have to know that, I _am._ ”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony pushes off the thin mattress and walks to the reinforced-glass doors. He bangs on it twice when a guard passes by. “Hey, you, get your Warden down here now!”

“Get back to your cell.” The guard grunts and points a large gun over Tony’s head. They’re dressed for battle, with stealth gear, helmets and bullet-proof vests, probably reinforced with kevlar. The boots quake on the glass as the guard kicks it. 

“Can’t you see behind those stupid goggles of yours. I’m already inside. Now, get me Ross!” He throws up a hand and bangs the glass. “I’m Tony Stark _._ I designed the weapon you’re carrying. Release me.”

It’s an older generation of Stark firearms, but still deadly. It’s been retired for over a decade now, but still in use by the Raft. He recalls sending that to Obie for approval. Tony twists his lips, disgusted at himself for making it and for Stark Industries for providing the seed fund to build this madhouse.

The Raft is for criminals and supervillains. He doesn’t belong here. 

“And now it’s keeping you in. It’s doing its purpose. And Stark?” The guard rubbed his mustache with a laugh. “Names don’t mean shit here. Get back to your cell, Number 137.” 

“I’m gonna have you booted for that.” Tony kicks the glass. “And why am I stuck here when others have their own cell?”

The guard turns and gives him a grin. “The Raft is designed to be hell, 137. I’m sure you’ll figure that out, genius.”

“Fucker.” Tony walks over to the camera in his goddamn cell and flicks it off. “Ross, you can’t be the judge and jury.” 

“Tony, come on, you need to rest. You’ve been up since you got here.” Steve stands so close to him, trying to grab his arm. Tony steps back. Steve frowns, evidently hurt. Good. 

“Get away from me.” 

“Tony, come to bed.” Steve says, tone soft. He raises a hand, then thinks better of it. 

“Leave me alone, Rogers.” Tony pushes past him, grabs a plastic cup and throws it to the wall. 

Steve backs away, mimicking Tony’s distant posture. “I’ll be here.”

“Where else would you go?” It strikes a chord deep within him that people deep in love could also be violent and cruel. He goes to the bathroom just to get away from Steve’s searching gaze. 

At least there is a make-shift door, a little over waist-high, separating the rest of the cell from the shitter. However, a quick glance at the upper left corner reveals a tiny moving camera. 

Fleetingly, he wonders whether the former Avengers felt annoyed at this 24/7 surveillance. This time, he flicks the camera off with both hands before washing his face. 

Water drips down his chin but he makes no movement to wipe it. Tony stares at himself in the mirror and tries not to weep. He traces the pale yellow and brown mixture of a bruise under his eye. 

He won’tdo it. Steve, with his enhanced hearing, will hear him and fret. Tony cannot have him so close. Steve will probably comfort him, hold him close, just like— 

“No,” Tony whispers, grabbing the unused towel from the rack and scrubbing his face raw. He drops on the toilet and puts his head between his legs and forces the tears down. 

His breathing is shallow. He tries to count each inhale and exhale to center himself. He stays there until he reaches over a thousand counts. 

Tony puts a hand to his fist and bites down. 

He distracts himself with the pain of his teeth chomping down the flesh. It’s a single moment of clarity: he’s stuck here with Steve for the unforeseeable future.

God, what a headache. He’s held captive without trial, awaiting adjudication for a crime he didn’t do. Tony still has no idea why he’s here. He snorts, “How very American.” 

There’s a knock on the door. Tony ignores it, focusing instead on the small shower beside the toilet and the tiny sink across from it. The bathroom of the Stark Industries jet is larger than the Raft’s sorry excuse of a washroom. 

The showers had two bars of soap and a small bottle of shampoo. 

It’s minimal essentials, after all, the scum of society didn’t need much according to the federal government. 

He scuffed the end of his shoes on the concrete floor.

The knock turns insistent. It’s pathetic, really, Steve could lean over the door parting and see Tony if he wants to. The false privacy he’s allowing Tony is worse, it’s as if Tony’s presence in this goddamn cell is a choice. 

“Tony…” Steve trails off. If Tony listens hard enough, he can hear Steve’s soft exhale. “Are you alright?”

“Stop asking that. You’re like a malfunctioning robot asking the same question over and over again. I just need to get out of here.” He squeezes his left wrist, trying to bring some blood flow into the numbness. Tony shuts his eyes, groaning. 

Steve knocks again, two quick taps on the door like he used to do when bringing food to the workshop.

Tony is so exhausted, he doesn’t have the energy to put up walls anymore. He wants to fall into Steve’s arms and bury himself on his chest. 

Tony stands, squeezes his left arm once more, then pushes the door open. He stares up at Steve, careful not to glance at his lips. “If we’re going to get out, we’ll have to work together. I can’t take this shit anymore. This is illegal _._ They can’t put me here.”

Tony heaves, overwhelmed and irritated that he couldn’t see through Ross’s thinly veiled lies. Steve isn’t hurt. “You shouldn’t have come here, Steve. You should have waited.”

“Would you have helped?”

He nods, short and curt. 

“Tony.” Steve’s eyes widen and they’re still as blue as the Arctic sea hitting the perimeter of the Raft. “Thank you.”

“Whatever,” he wants to pull away, but his feet refuse to move. “Think next time. I thought you were supposed to be a master strategist, but you just run everywhere, throwing your shield and fists. Not all problems can be fixed with a punch.” 

“Tell me you understand why I didn’t sign the Accords.” 

“Tell you what? First of all, fuck you, please why do you have to bring that shit up when we’re literally imprisoned?”

Steve throws up a hand. “That’s exactly what I mean, Tony! They want to register our biometric information, for what ends? We're being detained without trial because we didn't sign. You signed and you're still here.”

“You’re detained because you tried to bust out the other Avengers.”

“Tony, you gave me the location.” 

“Shut up. Just shut up.” Tony presses two fingers on the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t need the reminder that he’s willing to drop everything without question if Steve’s in trouble. 

“Why’d you come here, anyway?” Steve puts his hands on his lips like a disappointed father. “You must have known that Ross—” 

Tony walks away. He turns and forces his legs to walk to the other side of the room. He stands in the corner and stares at the window. It’s still raining. 

Steve continues, as always, he’s never one to stop once he starts. “It was right for me to come. This place is for criminals. You know that, Tony. The Avengers don't belong here. Sam, Clint, and Wanda believe in the mission and vision of the Avengers. We're not ruled by a government. We can’tbe. If a small handful of men govern the rights of the people, then all will be lost.”

“Look what no oversight does, Steve! We’re here at the Raft and no one knows.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, disgusted with the slick sweat on his neck. 

Pepper and Rhodey will declare him as a Missing Person in the next 24 hours. They were probably already fretting and asking FRIDAY about his whereabouts. SI satellites might be able to track his last stationary coordinates. 

All he can do is hope. 

Tony drops down on the mattress with a sigh. 

“Tony, I was a soldier in the 40's fighting against fascism. It's dangerous when the state controls its people. If the state, even the UN, had the power to dictate and determine what’s defined as ‘enemy of the state’ or superhero, it’s a dangerous territory.”

Steve walks forward and squats in front of him, still attuned to Tony’s likes and dislikes. The first time Steve stood over him on the workshop floor, he lost it and threw a wrench in shock. 

“The state has controlled its people since the beginning of time. Call it monarchy, oligarchy, whatever you want, but the Avengers need oversight as does the government.” He rubs his hands together wishing he had a tablet or even a screwdriver to tinker with. All this free time in a small room with two beds and set desk and nothing else is going to drive him insane. “Things aren’t perfect Steve, governmental structures are never made to be set in stone. There’s amendments. The law isn’t divine or a means to an end, but it’s gotta serve the people.”

“That’s why I couldn’t sign.”

“Fuck, Steve, that’s not it.” He slumped over the pillows. They were flat and barren. “I’m not even referring to the Accords. Fuck that. We’ll discuss that later. But we need to break out.” 

He’s calculating the chances of sneaking past one of the guards for their meal release. 

They had shackled Steve’s arms in specialized chains, but if they could somehow attack before they were escorted to the dining commons, then there’s a chance of escape. FRIDAY would be helpful at this moment, but god, Tony has nothing but his own brain and some scratch paper. 

Fuck it, he invented Mark I from salvaged pieces of scrap metal with a car battery strapped to his chest. In a goddamn cave.

He willescape. 

The facility has ten housing units but only six were in use. Inmates are separated by their level of power. 

The lower tiers in the depths of the Raft's labyrinth contained those who had mind-altering abilities like Crossfire, Killgrave, and Controller. 

Yet, Wanda Maximoff is detained in the tier below them with her cell right across from Steve’s. 

Tony presses his wrist again and twists his fingers. He needs to focus on planning the escape. Ross will have his ass handed to him.

“Is your arm okay?” Steve clears his throat, bouncing on his toes, still squatting. “You mentioned it was feeling numb before.” 

“It’s fine, don’t worry.”

“I always worry about you.” 

“I almost believe you. You have no right to sound so earnest.” Tony bites the inside of his cheeks and focuses on that sensation because if he looks at Steve without distraction, he might lose his hard-won footing. 

“It’s the truth.” Steve shrugs, like it doesn’t take a fight to pry out those words for him. 

“I wish you told me that when it came to my parents.” He tries biting sarcasm, but his tone falls flat. There’s too much veracity in the statement. Tony kicks off his feet in an effort to get Steve away from him. “Just leave me alone, Rogers. I need to think about how to get us out.” 

SHIELD and the Department of Security do not have a civic council to oversee the detention process. Most of the operations are blacked out from public archives. 

There's only whispers that The Raft exists and why not? The people would rather not see and hear the criminal detainees. Better to have them gone from their minds rather than humanize them. 

Tony doesn't necessarily feel for inmates, they were scum like Kilgrave and Crossbones, they deserved their sentences.

The hall's perimeters are enhanced by a motion detection system. If he had his watch, he'd be able to scatter the feed and block all sounds from the tier, but Ross has learned from Tony's previous visit and took that as well. 

He tries not to think of the strip search and how the Alpha guard leered at his ass. 

As Ross' goons escorted him to see Steve, he clocked over three dozen surveillance cameras from the Raft's entrance to the third tier. It's federally made but not contracted from Stark Tech. It might be easy to dismantle it only if he could get his hands on some wires. 

He just needed to get out of here. This is maximum security of villains who have wreaked havoc in society. He didn’t belong here. 

Neither did Steve. Or Wilson and the rest of Steve’s loyalists. 

Tony can’t figure out Ross’s motivations for his detention. Iron Man is needed, especially with the possibility of extraterrestrial war coming down on Earth. There’s no time for this bullshit. 

Don’t people realize that the very reason he signed the Accords is to ensure a united front whenaliens come? Yeah, call him a tin foil mad hatter, but Tony had seen what exists beyond the wormhole—his own two eyes are evidence enough.

Steve’s still on the floor, cross-legged now, with one hand placed under his jaw. He’s observing Tony with mournful blue eyes. 

“Stop looking at me.”

“What should I do, then?”

“Think of how we’ll get out of here.” Tony seethes, grabbing the pillow and settling it on his back. The mattresses were six-inches deep and filled with springs that dig along the valleys of his back. They’re made to be uncomfortable. “It's maximum security but it's still possible to break out. It has to be. At least they're not binding us or inserting bio-energy diffusers into our spines."

Below the deck, Maximoff is in a straitjacket with a blinking collar around her neck, looking braindead. There's no doubt that they're keeping her sedated with a cocktail of drugs.

Tony needs to escape before they try to calm him down. If his brain isn’t functional, he’s nothing. Attempting to keep focus, he tracks the camera’s movement. He’ll need to craft something, quick. Their shared cell only has the bathroom, its partition, and the adjacent beds. 

“We’re under surveillance with their AV. But we need to plan.” Tony stands, not bothering to check if Steve would move his large body from the floor. Tony steps over him to the glass door. The glass is reinforced by bars, likely wired with an electric shocker. Steve might be able to withstand it. 

Maybe if they get to the dining commons, he’ll have access to more material. Tony bumps his head on the glass. A frustrated noise escapes him. 

He shouldn’t have come.

“I know.”

“Did I say that outloud?” Tony turns around to see Steve sitting against the wall with his arms wrapped around his knees. He looks like a pouting child. Maybe it’s the guilt.

“Why did you come then?” Steve asks.

Tony hates looking at him. 

He despises how he can determine the expressions flashing across Steve’s face. Right now, he’s waiting for an answer and holding his breath in hopes that he’ll approve of Tony’s response.

Tony doesn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, he walks to the east wall and sits there. He has a tactical view of the hallway and Steve. The camera hums above his head. 

“I’m sorry, Tony.” Steve twists over to face Tony. There’s approximately six feet between them, yet it feels like the last few months there’s a crater between them.

“Ross wants to fuck with me. I was here before—” He shakes his head. “Anyway, he said, I’m lucky I'm not in one of these cells.” He shrugs, ignoring the ache on his shoulder. “But I guess he finally has reason to lock me up.” 

“We’ll get you out, Tony.” Steve’s eyes flash in worry and there’s a dip on the space between his brows. Tony should train himself to stop thinking that Steve is handsome. On an ordinary day, Tony’s heart stutters just at the sight of him. But when Steve’s worried—when Steve wears concern like it’s the truth, like he cares, Tony falls to his demise.

He’s always chasing after Steve.

They said Alphas are traditionally supposed to chase Omegas, court them, cherish them, and provide for them. But Tony and Steve are anything but normal. 

Those aphorisms are hackneyed and have fallen out of fashion decades ago. But still, their grips upon reality remain. Here’s Tony, wishing that Steve would run after him, too.

Except, Steve walked away and the snow settled around the broken suit like a bad metaphor for their demise. 

“We’ll both get out. The rest of the Avengers, too.” He winces, not sure whether any of them deserved that title anymore. There’s no moral high ground, they’re all just treading through the same, murky waters. The sharks below circle them, out for blood. “I’ll scorch this goddamn Earth for Ross’s head. He’ll be imprisoned for this false arrest. He has nothing on me.”

“Ross claimed you violated the Accords by coming for me...that day,” Steve says, slow as if measuring out the correct words. 

Tony presses his lips shut. He stares at Steve in challenge. Tony wants to wipe the harried look from his face. Instead, he presses his hands into a fist until his nails dig the palm of his hands. “Yeah, Ross has that on me.”

“Tony, why did you come?” Steve licks his lips and inches closer. It’s a familiar scene.

“I come all the time, Steve. Didn’t you know?” He raises an eyebrow and looks at the space above Steve’s head. The walls are reinforced by concrete and steel. 

Steve, as usual, ignores the easy out. He pushes at Tony, probes sore spots. “I mean, Siberia. And here, to the Raft.”

The answer is easy: _Because you needed me. You lead, I follow._

Tony takes the words with both his hands and shoves it down deep inside him, knowing all too well that no matter how much he pushed and pressed, he’d never be able to simmer his own need for Steve.

Tony closes his eyes. He can be weak for a moment. It’s as if he can finally breathe again. It’s as if he has been holding his breath since the bunker. He inhales, exhales, then opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is bright blue eyes; it tilts his already precarious world, once again. 

His nose flares and suddenly, the strong smell of grass is all over the cell. 

“Because it was the right thing to do.” He pauses for a beat, gulping down the curse. “Because we were friends.”

“Are we?” Steve examines him with the same intensity he did with most things. As if each living creature in this world is precious. Steve’s wrong. They’re in The Raft with the Earth’s vermin. “Still friends? Still —”

“I don’t know,” Tony interrupts sharply.

“Alright.” Steve nods, and backs off. He smells like comfort, like safety, like home, and it really shouldn’t be this way. Something must be wrong with Tony if he associates such things with Steve. 

Steve who left him in the cold bunker just before the blizzard had hit. 

Damaged suit, pried open with the force of Steve’s punches. Tony’s chest still feels frozen. His lips are still wind chapped. 

The hours tick by. 


	2. Chapter 2

From across the cell, Steve’s stomach grumbles. Tony tries not to worry. It’s short lived. 

Yesterday, Steve returned with a tray of food and tried to split his rations with Tony.

Tony refused the plate of food. 

Steve needs the energy more than him anyway. 

He takes in Steve’s gaunt face. Just a few days in the Raft and he’s already losing weight. 

He wonders what Steve bribed the security deal with to bring it out of the dining commons. Meals had to be eaten in the dining space unless the inmate is in administrative confinement and not allowed the crumb of interaction with other prisoners.

Tony is used to skipping meals when he’s in an invention frenzy. But here, in the Raft, there’s nothing but time and his mouth is parched with thirst. 

It’s fine. His body will adapt. Limits are barricades waiting to be demolished.

Tony spares a quick glance at Steve. He’s got his feet on the floor, sitting up with his back straight.

They’re silent until one of the guards bang on the bars. He’s wearing a tinted face shield and points the gun towards Steve.

Tony bounces to his feet. “I need to speak to Ross.”

“Dinner time,” the guard says in a bored voice. “You know the drill, Rogers. Teach your cellmate here some manners.”

Steve stops beside him and presses his hands to the glass. The panel opens up and Steve pushes his hands out for the guard to snap a metal bind around them. It glows red on the wrists, similar to Maximoff’s collar. His legs are next. 

The guard places a silver chain, thick and sturdy, around Steve’s ankles.

Steve should be able to break free if Tony can just mess with the wiring. Tony does the same waiting for the guard to snap the bind shut. The glass doors open and another guard, the one with the mustache, points two fingers and gestures them forward.

Tony thrusts his hands forward. “I’m not enhanced. I don’t need this.”

“Warden says you do.” The guard shrugs. “Just following orders.”

“So that's it, you just do whatever Ross tells you to do? I thought the Secretary of State is responsible for non-military policy and ensuring the protection of citizens."

“You’re not a citizen, you’re in the Raft. You have no rights, so shut your mouth, Number 137.”

“Or what?” 

“Or I’ll force you down and stuff a knot down your throat. Only way to get an Omega to stop talking right?”

“I’ll bite your dick off.” Tony’s eyes sting. He tries to choke down the bile rising from his stomach. He is part of a system that lets mistreatment flounder. “Just following orders,” he echoes with a sense of detachment, recalling Steve saying the same exact words.

“You wish you had the chance to get this,” the guard barks a cruel laugh and waves at his zipper. 

“Fuck you.”

“If that’s what you want,” another one of the men hollers and pushes Tony forward. 

Soldiers, guards, and securities teams are just following orders, therefore, no critique can be made possible because _it’s not their fault,_ right? The banality of evil starts with a man who takes no blame. 

Steve bumps him on the shoulder. He has no right to look so damned earnest. It breaks Tony; he still craves Steve’s care and reassurance. 

Line-up takes approximately fifteen minutes by Tony’s count. There’s 137 inmates in total, including himself. 

Nearly 23 hours a day in a cell and the only respite is waiting for justice that may never come. 

Along the hall are about a dozen inmates bound with the same metal cuffs that ran all the way up their forearms.

“So, are all of us eating together like one big happy criminal family?” Tony tries to shake off the crawling anxiety and examines the lower tiers. Wilson was placed there along with Maximoff. 

Barton and Lang’s cells are empty, likely taking a deal with Ross to be with their family. 

In addition to constant camera surveillance, the structure of the Raft allows each cell to be visible from the upper tiers. Escaping is harder without his tech. 

Tony just needed access to tools and he’d work on disabling the cell’s VC monitors. It’ll buy just enough time to deactivate the cell doors and maybe…

“Eyes forward, Stark,” the guard with the mustache grunts. They don’t bother to wear scent blockers here and it reeks like a colony of spiteful Alphas.

“Come on, this is my first visit here as a detainee. You know, your Warden was much more receptive when I came here after the construction. As a consultant. Now, I’m a goddamn prisoner.” 

“Welcome to the Raft, Stark.” A blond woman offered him a smile. She might have been pretty if not for the manic glow to her eyes and the sheen of sweat on her face. “What’d you do to get dumped in this hell hole?”

She wears the chains on her wrists with pride, as if it’s a luxury bracelet. She’s an Alpha. Bonded. But her scent is foul, a bond that’s not broken, but uncared for.

Tony’s neck itches and for a brief moment, he feels self-conscious under her scrutiny. 

She flicks her hair back to reveal the scar of the bond bite. 

“I shouldn’t be here.” Tony walks forward, following the guard into a series of halls. He takes mental notes on the the number of guards in each housing unit, and their patrol routes.

Every tier had four guards patrolling it. He hopes Steve is memorizing the locations and shifts of the security team, too.

The woman laughs, ignoring the cursing from the guards. “Me either. But I didn’t get a trial.” She shrugs, no regret in her expression. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but I suppose what’s right and wrong depends on the jury. But there’s no jury here, Stark, just a bunch of men who get off on authority. I’m Trish, by the way. Trish Walker.” 

The name is familiar and he looks at her again, remembering reading about some superhero fiasco in Midtown. Jessica Jones and her sister, Trish Walker. 

Trish from _Trish Talk,_ the radio talk show that Tony made JARVIS change whenever it came on live. He remembers a news article on their family feud. 

“Due process doesn't apply to murderers like those in the Raft and rather than send them to a quick demise in Death Row, the government would rather damn their lives to a slow death. I don't really see the point, though, Stark. Why do you think they're keeping us here?”

“Because you’re criminals.”

“Who gets to determine that? A government that lies to its people, makes backhanded deals with foreign nations for money and power?” Trish smirks. “I guess you’d know though.” 

Tony ignores her and takes comfort in the annoyance radiating from Steve behind him. 

Steve is all he has here, and he hates the fact.

The dining hall is a large open space with an ominous watch tower in the middle serving as a panopticon. Inside is another guard snapping his baton on the railing.

“Get in line, Stark,” the guard barks out, using his gun to nudge him to the service area at the end of the room. 

Behind him, Steve growls like a feral dog. Like he’s still Tony’s — 

No.

Tony ignores it. He’s not helpless. He isn’t. 

“I thought there were over a hundred inmates.” Tony grabs a tray, following Trish in line. “Where are the rest?”

Behind him, Steve nudges their elbows, a reminder that he’s there. It makes Tony pause for a moment. Being around Steve is one thing, feeling his flesh is another matter. His heart stutters at the betrayal.

“Just about. Do you really expect them to have a hundred inmates in one small space? You’re asking for a riot,” Trish explains. “Meal times follow a specific rotation. There are about ten tiers in use. Not everyone eats meals.”

“Is that punishment?” Steve asks, sounding appalled. 

Trish’s mouth quirks up. “Punishment for who? Some people don’t need to eat, their bodies aren’t made for it. Not everyone is human here.” She turns to Tony with a raised eyebrow. “I thought you’d know that, Stark.”

“No, I didn’t —“

“There’s really no oversight here, is there?” Steve asks, voice dark, face set into an eternal frown. 

Tony pulls his tray forward for one of the servers to drop a glop of potatoes and something that looked like some type of meat. It smells disgusting, like blood and spoiled mayonnaise. 

He grimaces at the next glop of food that is dropped on his tray.

“Whatever. I don’t know. I don’t ask,” Trish scoffs, eyeing the man in the tower for a beat. She nods to the door and observes the rest of the room. “Eight tiers attend the dining commons at different times. We have fifteen minutes to cuff ourselves and be escorted to the halls. Another fifteen minutes to eat, then the last fifteen minutes is for returning to the cells for count. It’s all about time here, Stark. Doing time. Wasting time.”

The man serving the food wears a bulletproof vest and has a taser strapped to their shoulder. Tony offers his tray and is met with a bored expression. 

“Are there fights here, often?” Tony observes five more inmates all sit on separate tables across the hall, following Trish further into the dining area.

“Sometimes. There’s a hierarchy in any structure, I’m sure Captain America knows that, seeing he’s been top dog all these years.” Trish drops at the nearest table. Tony sits across from her, with Steve by his side. “That’s why our out-of-cell time is limited. The dickbag Warden Ross doesn’t want us fraternizing in case of us planning a breakout. There’s really no need, if you ask me. If I ever get the chance to be in the same room as Kilgrave, I’ll claw his eyes out.” A dark shadow passes over Trish’s face, then she shoves a spoonful of potatoes into her mouth and swallows with a grimace. She inspects the spoon. “Food is shit, here. You’re probably used to eating at Michelin star restaurants, Stark. So you might have eaten escargot and exotic shit, but do you like maggots and the taste of piss in your food?” 

“Can’t say I do.” His captors in Afghanistan had fed him scraps and leftovers three times a day. They had to keep Tony Stark’s brain functional after they mutilated his body. Tony picks up the plastic fork and tries to ignore the way Steve’s knees brush his own under the table and the scent of grass attempting to calm his brewing fears.

Steve begins to eat the mix of meat, rice, and potatoes. He’s surprised that Steve hasn’t batted Trish out of their vicinity yet. “Eat, Tony. Come on.”

Tony pushes his plate to Steve. “Have at it. I’m not hungry.”

“At least drink some water.” Steve offers the blue cup to him. He says pointedly, “You have to keep your energy.” 

“Fine.” Tony drinks, staring at Steve. 

“Picky, aren’t you, Stark? You’ll have to eat this shit for however long you’ll be here.” Trish laughs, it sounds nice, but Tony knows better. There’s an edge of rage in her smile. “It’s true what the papers say about you two, then.” 

“I’m not staying.” Tony ignores the unvoiced question and raises an eyebrow instead. “Not sure if you realized, but I’m not a criminal.”

“Merchant of Death. Has the pressed stop calling you that even after Lagos? You put on a suit and hit the market as Iron Man and they love you even if you killed people years before wearing a faceplate.” Trish leans forward and tilts her head. “I put on a suit and I’m called a criminal. What’s the difference? Is it because I’m a woman?”

Being an Alpha has less currency if you’re a woman, but still, Tony knows, at the end of it, he’s an Omega and that social standing is worse, no matter how progressive the world claims to be.

“Listen, we’re not trying to pick a fight with you.” Steve crosses his arms and gets up in Trish’s face. He smells like wanting, and the ventilation in the Raft is elementary at best, and all he smells, day and night, is Steve.

“Stop it.” He kicks Steve’s shin under the table and glares at him before turning to Trish. “Why are you in here anyway?”

“Hmmm.I thought I was a hero. Vigilante, at best, but I’ve been told that I have a skewed perception of justice. At this point, I don’t really care for the world anymore. It can all burn to hell. There’s no purpose in justice and if you believe in that, Stark, you’ll have to fight for the rest of your life. Aren’t you tired?” She finishes the food from her tray, glances at the clock counting down the minutes. She stands. “Come on, we gotta go before the guards start beating us. They love that.”

“That’s unconstitutional.” Steve brings their tray to the disposal and follows them to the line near the entrance.

Trish circles Steve with a cheshire cat grin and it hits him that this Alpha is _Hellcat._

“Captain America, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this is the fucking Raft. They don’t give a shit about what happens to us. Just you watch, you’ll fall down your pedestal. The sound of the waves hitting the Raft is bound to drive you insane.” 

Trish lines up beside Tony. He’s sitting between two blond Alphas smelling like righteousness. They flare their noses and sit up. A soft purr comes out of Trish’s mouth.

They stare at each other for another beat, then nod like they’ve come to an understanding. 

Tony cannot comprehend the posturing. He shakes his head and pushes at Steve’s shoulder for count. 

Any excuse to touch him.

They’re last in line. 

There are five detainees, looking human and ordinary, lined up in front of them. Well, Steve and Trish look normal, too, but Tony knows they’re both enhanced. 

Everyone is in the Raft for a reason.

“Stark, you should change your clothes,” The guard says.

“I told you, I’m not staying here,” Tony scoffs, crossing his arms and refusing the shackles the guard is dangling in front of him. 

“Put these on or I’ll kick you down, 137.”

“Tony, please,” Steve whispers, signaling at his own cuffed hands. 

“Fine.” Tony holds up his hand. 

The cuff snaps close. 

“When you leave, can I come?” Trish breaks from the line and walks beside Tony. 

One of the guards steps forward and hits her on the shoulder with a baton. “Back in line, Walker.”

“Fuck off.” She flicks off the guard when he turns around and stands behind Tony. 

“You can’t. You belong here.” Tony says, staring at the back of Steve’s neck, not sure who he’s referring to. Did Steve belong here? Did Tony? 

“Who determines where one belongs? Don’t you want to be _free_?” She breaks the line again and walks backwards, eyeing Tony with curiosity. She’s pretty, classically so, with a straight nose and plum lips. But she’s a goddamn mess and she just rolls her eyes when a guard hits her from behind and yells at her.

“You’re gonna get hurt.”

“Nothing new.” Trish shrugs, and Tony realizes with disappointment that these hits were a regular occurrence. 

He shouldn’t feel sympathetic towards her. Building weapons for decades didn’t seem to harden the tender parts of him. 

Trish is wrong, even if she believes her actions are correct with resolve. 

Yeah, that sounds like someone Tony knows. 

Tony keeps his eyes on Steve’s form. He hates the way Steve’s muscles stretch across his back through the thin uniform. The rustle of the chains on his jeans grounds him.

Tony doesn’t have an answer for her. Freedom assumes that people were once sovereign. But Tony knows that has never been the case. 

Born into Stark and Omega, his identity is already constructed. It didn’t matter how much he tried to splinter from the paved path. 

Freedom is dictated by the market and whoever has the deepest pockets controls regulations. There's nothing to be said about human respect or rights.

They reach their tier. 

The guard swipes his hand on the keypad and the doors open. He follows Steve into the middle of the circular hall. On one side, there’s a man staring blankly at the wall. Tony looks away before he feels pity. He focuses on cataloguing Steve’s displeased expression instead. 

Even after all the hurt and betrayal, Tony is still—

No, better to talk to Trish. “Do you think you’ll be free even if you manage to get out of here? They’ll hunt you down.”

“That’s part of the fun. But at least it's on my terms.”

“Watching your back for the rest of your life is its own form of prison.”

“But I’ll get to prowl in the chains I choose.” Trish sing-songs, pulling away from the line and waiting for the guard to open her cell. “You really should put on the uniform, Stark. You might stay longer than you think before the Warden graces us with his hateful face.”

“If I don’t?” He feels Steve on his back, waiting for him. 

“You shouldn’t wait till they strip your street clothes off of you. You know, they just wait for you to do it expecting that _you don’t,_ so they have an excuse to beat you. And your an Omega. They’re just biding their time to have the excuse to touch, so they could say they didn’t have a choice. You forced their hand.” 

“They wouldn’t do that,” Steve says, still believing that The Raft would treat trash as if they were human. 

Captain America and his damned ideals, Tony could laugh. Steve still hasn’t learned that the world is governed by wolves who bare their teeth and claws. Alpha, Omega, Beta, they’re all the same when it comes to claiming power.

“They did it to me.” She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “And I’m an Alpha. A beta fuck stripped me. Took everything off. Slapped my face and shoved my head over the shirt.” Trish pulls at the blue cloth. “Grabbed my legs and pulled the pants over me. I wonder what they’d do to an Omega. We don’t have a lot of them over here, you see. Either they were dead on the scene or…”

She eyes him with something he can’t place. Maybe it’s sympathy, if that’s possible. 

“Or what,” Steve inquires. 

A guard blocks his line of vision and grabs him by the bicep. “Alright, that’s enough, Stark, Walker. Get in your holes.” He shoves Tony to the side, further and further until Tony’s face hits the cell doors. 

“Before you become just a fuck hole,” one of the Alphas jeer. 

He hears Steve’s sound of protest. Tony doesn’t know what’s worse, the fact that an Alpha grabbed him like a fish in a wet market or that Steve’s indignant on his behalf.

Across the way, Trish waves, enters her cell, and puts her hands through the openings in the glass panel. The other guard removes the shackles and she sits on her bed watching Tony. She smiles at him. It almost looks friendly. 

He follows Steve inside, sticks out his hand for the chain’s removal. “Ross. I need to see him.”

“Shut up, 137. You’ll see the Warden when he wants to see you. He’s got more important things to do than chat with the likes of you.” He points at the stack of clothes on Tony’s mattress. “And like Walker said, put on your clothes before one of us holds you down and do it for you.”

The guard huffs with a sinister smile, like a goddamn sadist. Tony stares at him, defiant. “I’m getting out of here before I put that shit on. Then, I’ll have all of you audited and reported for brutality.”

The guard with the mustache comes forward, looking chuffed. “Ah, you wanna file a grievance? I’ll get you the form tomorrow.”

The other guard, the Beta who removed Trish’s chains, laughs from across the room. They leave without a backwards glance. 

Tony rolls his shoulders and rubs the sore on his arm.

“Tony, let me see.” Steve’s in front of him, eyes cast down in worry. Before Tony can slap his hands away, Steve’s already fingering the sleeves of his jacket, peeling it off to reveal his t-shirt and bare arms. 

There’s a slight bruise already forming. 

“I’m fine. I get hurt in the field all the time. It’s nothing.”

Nothing compared to a vibranium shield’s weight down his chest. 

“It’s not nothing! You’re hurt.” Steve bites his lip, rubbing at Tony’s arm. It lights a fire deep inside him. Tony tries to snuff it shut, but Steve smells worry and tenderness and all Tony wants to do is curl on his lap, scent him, rub their cheeks together. 

It shouldn’t be like that. It can’t be like that. 

Tony closes his eyes, lets Steve’s concern wash over him, then walks away. Just a few feet to his own bed. 

“I’m good, Rogers. I’m not a helpless Omega that needs an Alpha to protect them.” He sits in the corner of the room, in perfect sight of the cameras. He sighs, leaning his head against the wall. “We’ll clear our names then scorch this shitty world with Ross’s remains.”

President Matthew Ellis is an irresponsible twat for naming Ross as Secretary of State. Tony’s already plotting both their downfalls. They can’t put Iron Man and Captain America here. Greater men in history have sinned and were lauded as icons, not crucified. 

He just wanted Steve.

No, he wanted to help Steve. He needed Steve safe. Nothing else matters. It’s his stupid —

He closes his eyes. 

The bond. It’s untended, but not broken.

Even when he laid in the hospital with broken ribs, nothing but the white ceiling of the room to keep him company, he didn’t sever the bond.

He should.

He couldn’t.

Now, in the cold rot of his cell, Steve is who he has left.

Their bond is tangled and loose between them.

It should be easy to reach for the it, probe at it, see if Steve still —

He sighs out a heavy breath, bites the inside of his cheeks, and forces himself not to cry.

Tony would go crazy if he could trace the lines on Steve’s face and try to imagine a bruise blooming from where the gauntlet hit his face. It didn’t use to be fists on each other’s jaw, before it used to be—

No, Tony’s not thinking about it.

He made his choice. 

He survived the brutality of the bunker, he’ll live through the Raft. 

Freedom is an imaginary garden that contains a fruitless land. One has to work the plot to reap anything. But when more men come around to cultivate the area and divide it into plots, man gets lost in institutions, transforming what’s supposed to be utopia into property. 

It’s the same thing here, Tony thinks. One tends the property to reap its benefits. Freedom is the will to choose to labor. But if one leaves the garden, there’s nothing else but darkness. 

Man returns. The choice is made. There’s no consent or freedom in coercion.

But he’s _here._ He’s in the Raft without his gauntlet, bracelet, or FRIDAY. He’s sitting in dirty clothes and he stinks of betrayal, a wounded Omega hurting while his mate can’t do anything but stare and talk in broken sentences. 

He’s here, mouth dry, stomach imploding, alone. 

All for Steve.

To check on Steve.

To see if Steve is alive. If Steve is alright.

For Steve. For Steve. For Steve.

His heart bleeds for Steve, again and again. 

He doesn’t know what to feel. But when his eyes find Steve sitting on the mattress across the room, his eyes bright with distress and the smell of remorse filling the room, Tony knows one thing is certain. 

He tries to suppress the thought, drown it in the misery of the Raft, and the injustice of being locked up. 

It comes through, inevitable, like it always does when his thoughts circle around Steve. He pauses for a moment, letting himself slip. He observes the tilt of Steve’s head, the column of his throat. Steve’s not even flexing, but his hands are open on his lap. 

Those hands used to trace patterns on Tony’s cheeks. With a smile. Because Steve is cruel and once you know happiness, you understand bitterness. His nails are a little too long. Steve doesn’t like that because it makes him chew on his thumbs. He must be dying for clippers.

There he goes. 

Steve twists his fingers over his pants. Then, his eyes are fixed on Tony.

He takes a moment to think of anything other than the man who slammed a shield to his chest and lied to him.

There used to be breakfasts in the Tower with the rest of the team. Steve carrying him off his workshop to bed. Hours spent in the bath together where Steve would trace patterns on his back and whisper about his day. Apologies said deep in the night for arguments that now seem trite. Two of them in bed, together, thrusting and forcing their bodies to become one.

A bite. 

Blood that’s licked until it scars into a white line.

The shape of Steve’s teeth forever tattooed on his neck.

He closes his fists, forces his body to stop shaking. It’s useless. 

A sob escapes. 

Betrayal tastes like vanilla. Comfort and cozy in the lie. Then it settles and smells like dust in an abandoned house. 

Tony is here. How he feels doesn’t matter. His actions contest his emotions. But that’s nothing new. 

On the other side of the room, Steve reaches out.. He lifts a finger, making a jagged line in the space between them, as if he was resting a careful finger on Tony’s cheek.

It’s a familiar movement. The line goes down as if he’s caressing Tony’s bond mark.

“Omega…” 

“I’m not your Omega.” Tony blinks his eyes open. 

It’s like falling out of the wormhole again. The first thing he sees is blue. 

A pale blue dot. 

The lights in the Raft shut in an instant. “Lights out!” 

“Tony,” Steve says, voice low and pained. “Can we — “

Tony twists, flattens his back on the mattress and puts a pillow over his head. He kicks his feet, frustrated, and screams, but a cry escapes instead. “Steve, why. I. Why.” 

“Please.”

“No, Steve. No, not now. We’re not doing this.” He turns against the wall, then thinks better of it. He turns back to face Steve who hasn’t moved at all. 

Steve won’t hurt him. He didn’t hurt him last night. Steve punched his jaw, kicked him, and shoved him in the bunker. He was in the suit then. Steve will not maim him without the suit. If he did, it would be real. His betrayal will be true. Steve will not do that. Steve is better than that. 

But maybe not.

Tony can be naked or in the suit and he knows what it’s like to have his heart ripped out of his chest by the very man that—the Alpha who is—

“Tony.” Steve’s tone is desperate. There were other times when his voice carried the same timbre, but in a completely different situation. Back then, Steve would be beside him, ki—

There’s no doubt that he can still see Tony in the darkness. It's better this way. Steve is tracking his breaths. But he doesn’t have to see Tony cry. Tony will not give him that satisfaction. 

“Let’s sleep.” 

He hears the rustle from across the room. There’s one single pillow for each mattress. It’s lumpy and flat. “Alright. Goodnight, Tony I—”

“No. Goodnight.” He barks out because he doesn’t want to hear the apology. Or worse. He doesn’t want to hear those words that follow Steve’s, “goodnight.”

Sleeping in the same room is already too familiar. His heart feels flayed and he should get the arc reactor back once he gets out of here. Maybe then, he’ll have a heart made of vibranium. It wouldn’t shatter as easy as glass. 

He has a glass heart, like Maria. 

Tony stares at the ceiling. Outside, the waves crash against the rubble. 

In the tiny window above their beds, the moon shines through false hope. He tracks the shadows on the walls and tries not to let Steve’s breaths lull him to sleep.

It does, though. 

Tony loves him. He shouldn’t, but he does.


End file.
